Cold Comfort
by ShadeShifter
Summary: Ficlets in which John realises what Sherlock went through during those two years he was 'dead'.
1. Cold Comfort

Based loosely on a prompt from the kinkmeme: When Sherlock comes back from the dead John's really pissed at him. Then he accidentally sees the wounds / scars on his back and starts realizing what he must've gone through.

...

After the press conference, John watched Sherlock shrug out of his jacket and casually throw it over the back of a chair. He still felt an undercurrent of annoyance and betrayal at the ease with which Sherlock slipped back into his old life as though nothing had changed, as though, despite being insanely happy Sherlock was alive, John hadn't also been absolutely devastated by his death. Sherlock turned and John's breath caught at the sight of blood spotting the back of the crisp, white shirt.

"Sherlock, you're hurt," John said, stepping forward and reaching out to touch him before stopping short. "Did I do this?" he asked, horrified. He'd been angry and he'd wanted to hurt Sherlock, certainly, but not like this, not seriously. Sherlock scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Sherlock."

"You didn't hurt me, John," Sherlock said, coming uncharacteristically close to sounding reassuring.

"There should still be a med kit around here, somewhere," John said, drawing on his detached professionalism. Sentimentality would just push Sherlock away again at this point.

"I have already been attended to," Sherlock told him, not moving from his spot by the fireplace, arms folded across his chest.

"Not well enough," John said. There hadn't been much blood and Sherlock was probably telling the truth, but John had just got him back. The urge to make sure was undeniable.

"Sherlock," John said, low and beseeching. "Please."

For a long moment, Sherlock simply stared at him, evaluating and judging him, though John wasn't sure what for. It had been common for him to treat Sherlock before, especially when it meant Sherlock could avoid a hospital visit. Finally, Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh and relented.

"Very well, John," he said with the air of someone indulging an insignificant whim as he turned and began to unbutton his shirt. "If you insist."

John couldn't help the soft gasp that escaped him at the sight of the purple-green mottled expanse of skin that was revealed to him. The bruising was extensive, but not life-threatening, and some of it was fading already. That wasn't his immediate concern.

Though some of the wounds had bled through, John could see that they had been dressed carefully and thoroughly, which made him feel a little better. What concerned him where the scars, some thick and red, still in the process of healing, other thin and pale, old and mended. Before he even realised what he was doing, his fingers traced along a scar that followed the curve of Sherlock's shoulder blade. Sherlock immediately tensed at his touch and John's lips pursed in a thin line, though he didn't say anything.

Instead, he focussed on carefully removing the plaster and getting an idea of what had happened. He'd been an army doctor; there'd been no end to the kinds of wounds he'd dealt with, the depths of depravity people could visit on each other. He could only come to one conclusion. Sherlock had been beaten and tortured.

"Where have you been the last two years?" John asked softly as he began to apply antiseptic ointment. It had to sting, John was sure, and Sherlock – the Sherlock of two years ago – would have complained, loudly and non-stop, but this Sherlock endured stoically.

"Busy," Sherlock said, voice as tight and tense as his posture.

"Sherlock," John said, though he didn't know what he was asking or what response he expected.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock said in that same soft and reassuring tone. The one that told John that Sherlock definitely wasn't alright at all. From the way the most recent marks had scabbed over but hadn't yet begun healing, John would guess they weren't even a few days old.

"I'm sorry," he said, thinking of how he'd tackled Sherlock to the ground, not once but twice. He might not have caused the wounds, but he'd certainly aggravated them.

"Whatever for, John?" Sherlock asked, twisting to examine John's expression for a sign of what exactly he meant. His tone was genuinely confused and John wished he knew the words to explain to Sherlock everything he was sorry for, not least his reaction to Sherlock's return. He'd been angry, and he felt he had a right to that, but Sherlock hadn't deserved the violence.

"Never mind," John said. He carefully and lightly smoothed new plaster over the wounds and watched as Sherlock shrugged back into his shirt. "Why don't I make some tea and you tell me the thirteen possible scenarios," he offered instead.

Sherlock eyed John sceptically for a moment before he smiled, smug and self-assured.


	2. In The Dark

Based on another prompt: Follow up to canon Sign of Three please, John and Sherlock come back from a case and collasp in Sherlock bed together. Because John is too far and it's three o'clock in the morning or what ever. Not long after, John is awoken by Sherlock, in the mist of a terrible nightmare.  
Cue after-care and Sherlock reveals some of what he went through in his two years absent.

...

John wasn't sure what woke him and it took him a moment to orient himself in the dark room. He was on the wrong side of the bed and Mary wasn't snoring softly, curled into his side like he was used to, yet the presence next to him was unmistakable. He turned, squinting in the faint light filtering from the hallway, and spied the long-limbed figure of Sherlock lying with his back to John.

He remembered then; the case had been long and involved, exhausting in more ways than just endlessly traipsing across London. The murders had been brutal and the perpetrator unwilling to surrender quietly. John hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock alone, not with the blow to the head. Not after Sherlock had walked out of his wedding without a word to anyone. Mrs Hudson's story about her friend still sat in the back of his mind, dark and heavy.

Another glance around the room and there was no sign of any trouble, no noise from downstairs, that could have disturbed him. He turned again to Sherlock when the other man made a strangled, panicked sound. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but in the dark and the quiet it sounded inordinately loud.

"Sherlock," John murmured, wanting to wake Sherlock but not wanting to startle him too badly. He knew all about being startled awake and the dangers thereof. He couldn't help but remember the scars, the damage that had been wrought on Sherlock, recorded indelibly in his skin. There was so much he still didn't know about what had happened to Sherlock in those two years. Sherlock refused to speak about it and John wasn't sure how to push the subject.

Sherlock's frame was taut. Even though he was still fully dressed, John could see the tension in the set of his shoulders and the way his hand curled into a white-knuckled fist in the blanket. Somehow, it was worse that in this Sherlock was almost silent. Especially when before Sherlock's absence, when Sherlock had collapsed from exhaustion on the couch, his sleep had been fidgety and restless.

"Sherlock," he said again, resting a hand lightly on the other man's shoulder. Sherlock jolted, immediately awake. John kept his hand where it was, not making any sudden movements. He didn't want either of them getting hurt and Sherlock was absolutely still, coiled in anticipation. John hated to think of what prompted that.

"It's alright," John murmured, trying to keep his voice gentle and even. "It's just me."

"John," Sherlock acknowledged, though he remained tense. They were silent for a long moment, John listening to Sherlock's breathing, making sure that Sherlock was there, with him, and not back in whatever nightmare lived in his head.

"What happened in the two years you were gone?" John asked into the darkness. It was difficult like this, without being able to see Sherlock's face, to try to judge his expression, which was problematic enough to determine in the full light of day.

"A great many things," Sherlock said, voice forcefully light and upbeat, like he was telling a story, giving a performance.

"What happened to you, Sherlock?" John pressed. If there was one place Sherlock didn't need to perform, it was with John, there in the dark and the quiet.

"A great many things," Sherlock repeated with a sigh. "I was foolish, impulsive. I wanted..."

Sherlock trailed off and John was silent, aware of the way Sherlock's shoulder twitched under his hand. Now that the man was awake, the urge to move, to fidget and pace, to run, had clearly reasserted itself.

"I wanted to come home," Sherlock finally admitted.

John's heart clenched painfully even as his stomach lurched. He'd seen a great many terrible things in war, had come out of it damaged and a little bit broken, but that had been his prevailing thought, too. Even when he hadn't known what home was. It hadn't been England or London or Harry, it hadn't been anything until 221B Baker Street.

"What happened?" he asked, softly, carefully.

"Moriarty had to be stopped."

It sounded like a mantra and something cold shivered down John's spine.

"He was."

Sherlock shook his head, barely perceptible in the darkness, and John frowned, trying to work out what Sherlock meant.

"There was more than just the man," Sherlock told him. "There was a network, spanning half the globe, which had to be dealt with first."

It seemed impossible, Sherlock taking on an international network alone, but then he remembered what Mary had said about a confidant and it all started to make a scary amount of sense.

"Why?" John asked. "Why you?"

"Because no one else could have."

John scoffed. There were agents for that sort of thing, entire government departments and military units. The idea that only Sherlock could have dealt with it was preposterous. Sherlock tensed again at John's disbelief, all uptight indignation.

"I would not trust your, all your, safety to anyone else."

John wanted to be angry, wanted to protest his ability to look after himself, to defend even Sherlock at times, but the idea that Sherlock had suffered for them, for him, took all the fight out of him. He remembered those bruises, those scars, and impotent anger battered at his psyche. There wasn't anything he could do to those who had inflicted them, not when he didn't know what had happened beyond supposition or who they were.

"You didn't have to do it alone," John said, already knowing what Sherlock's response to that would be. Sherlock didn't even deign to answer, but the tension in his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

"I'm glad you're home," John told Sherlock and the shoulder beneath his hand relaxed even further.

"Of course you are," Sherlock agreed. Despite himself, John laughed.


End file.
